Ode to a snail

The appropriate move would be to hide,
to retract into somewhere safe,
like a snail.
More specifically,
like the eye of a snail
tumbling deeper and deeper inside its stalk
after a period of delicate testing
is suddenly halted by an unexpected texture.

Draw inwards, then.
Introspection is healthy.
But beware a dark internal density,
heavy gravity
that pulls compresses retains.

Ode to Epiphany

I look for you everywhere.
Is that weird?
I wait for you on the bus, my breath catches at your stop.
I look for you on the street and in restaurants
and while biking.

A chance encounter would justify
all sorts of thoughts and obsessions.
If I look for you everywhere
and finally see you,
then what conclusions I could draw
about alignment
and epiphany,
and the redemptive experience of epiphany amid banality.

Ode to Oceans

Beneath the waves that crash
rhythmically
like the beating of a drum,
swells the deeper
secret ache
of the tides.

Ode to Reflections

What do you do
when you meet the one
who has the same eyes as you?
And you know
that if you look straight into them
you'll lose it all.

Keep calm and fixate on the mouth
cherishing the asymmetry of movement,
the way smiles start left then travel right.
Or sit beside each other like Nighthawks,
and only focus forwards.

Otherwise your breath will catch in your throat
Words fall apart in stutters and chokes
IQ drops to single digits
fidgits
and the familiar heat of a face engorged with blood
flashing panicked red like the lights of an ambulance.

(secretly now)

(you are reflections.  look at his cheeks.
he's feeling the same dull pressure under the skin.)

Ode to pupils

What do you do when you meet someone who has the same eyes as you?
Do you stare deeply into them
to find complimentary whirls
and perfect spirals?
Ahh I bet you'd like to think so.

Actually you have to avoid them.
Focus on the lips as he's talking,
otherwise you'll lose it.
Focus on anything but the eyes.
Otherwise you'll lose it all.

I dissected a rat in high school.
I was the one who cut throuh the skin
and peeled it back from the muscle.
Someone else made the deep cut into the abdomen
revealing the surprise
as I watched.
The surprise: there was no empty space.
The rat was designed using the principles of compact living.
Organs were coiled together
into these so-called "perfect spirals."

When you meet someone who has the same eyes as you?
Do you meet their gaze?
Can they meet yours?

Because pupils are an absence.
They're maybe the only part of the body
that is defined as empty space.

If pupils are an absence,
then that brown-eyed boy and I
share the same capacity.

Ode to the Smartphone

Time for a rhymer, methinks -- this one pays homage to Dennis Lee.

*   *   *

"Doctor doctor save my daughter!"

"She is gone and can't be saved."

"Doctor doctor save my daughter!"

"She has gone and been enslaved

by the surfing

by the glow

by the LMFAO!!!11!!!!1!!

by the facebook
by the memes

by the endless youtube streams

by the texting

up till dawn

by the cheap emoticons

by the gmail

by the chats

by-the-ton L-O-L cats.

She has lost her

interest in

spending time with family

She has lost her 

interest in
even watching bad TV

With her smartphone
in her hand
she will waste away, you see

Till the day when
she live tweets
her own 140 character eulogy!"

"Doctor doctor save my daughter!"

"She is gone and can't be saved."

"Doctor doctor save my daughter!"

"She has gone and been enslaved."

*   *   *

N.B.  I have not yet purchased a smartphone.

Ode to a Prime Meridian

There's a little kernel

a little, tiny kernel

lodged deep

right beside the most private of organs.

like a kernel, like a bean

A dried bean. 

This is zero zero (0,0)

This is the origin point,

the point where the axes of the system intersect.

Though you may not be the Vitruvian Man

you are based on that secret geometry.

Coordinates are plotted over time

(mostly from equations that were formalized long ago)

and a thin outline appears.

You reach your arms wide 

to fulfil the promise of your proportions.

(fingertips ache for contact -- I'm not going to tell you how this one ends)

*   *   *

Peanut Gallery whispers include:

"'Round here we call that 'privilege,' and you gotta check that shit at the door"

"Too bad you're not Michael Phelps!  He's got the wingspan of an albatross"